Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

  Mila gasps, squeezing my hand. “Oh shit. Is that when he turned you?”

  “No, he merely stared at me across the heap of torn flesh with a glare as cold and hard as diamonds. Like a coward, I fled.”

  “That’s not cowardly, Vincent. That’s common sense. I would have been screaming and fainting all over the place.”

  I smile. “I never said I wasn’t screaming and I certainly felt like fainting. Afterward, I told myself I had hallucinated and imagined the whole thing, especially when Gregor showed up later like nothing happened.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Oddly enough, we didn’t talk about it—there was so much going on at the time—but I started to watch him closely. I noticed how fast he moved, and then one afternoon, after losing at cards, he crumbled the stem of a goblet into dust.”

  “When did you find out for certain?”

  “After I was arrested. They were rounding up nobles on charges of counterrevolution. My parents, myself, and most of the court were flung into prison. Gregor McLaren came along for the ride. One night, he approached me. He told me what he was—an ancient vampire, a demon, undead.”

  Mila frowns. “Wasn’t he afraid you would tell everyone?”

  “He must have had an inkling most of us wouldn’t live to tell the tale. And after I hadn’t said anything about that day at Tuileries, he’d developed a high regard for me.” My throat tightens, though this isn’t the worst part of the story. Not by a long shot. “He offered to turn me and I accepted.”

  “Just like that?” she asks in disbelief.

  I loosen my grip on her waist, staring over her head toward the dark square of the window. I gaze at the same stars that looked down on me back then, in an airless cell crawling with rats and filled with the stench of human waste, the same stars that will continue to shine long after the beautiful mortal in my arms is dead.

  No matter what happens, life isn’t fair. It never will be.

  “I knew we were going to die,” I say, my voice a whisper. “The guards spoke of nothing but the revolution with each other, all through the night. There was no way I would be leaving that cell. Yet I wasn’t afraid to die. That isn’t why I accepted his offer. I accepted because of the girl back home. If I died in Paris I would never have seen her again. I acted from my own selfish desires—the desire for a new life. One without constraints. A life where I could be in control, marry whomever I wanted to marry, be rich and free at the same time.”

  Mila goes quiet, staring off into space. Like a coward, I silently pray she doesn’t ask about the girl. Though I owe her the truth, I suddenly can’t bear the idea of losing her so quickly.

  “Did you manage to break out?” she asks, brow knotted.

  “Not right away. New vampires are susceptible to daylight, as well as silver, crucifixes, holy water—all the clichés are true in those first few weeks. After the transition period is over, nothing can hurt us.”

  “I wondered where all that stuff came from,” she says. “What happened after you were free?”

  “The first thing I did was break out my mother and father. After a couple of months, I could bend metal—new vampires are exceedingly strong. I helped as many as I could to escape. My mother and father were horrified at the change in me—they didn’t fully understand what I’d become—and after they were free, I never saw them again. I remember the look in their eyes the last time we were together—pure horror, as if I were a stranger and not their own flesh and blood. I’ve felt like a monster ever since. A freak of nature.”

  Mila brushes hair from my face, tangling her fingers into my hair. “You’re not a monster, Vincent,” she whispers.

  I open my mouth, fully prepared to tell her what happened next, why she’s wrong in more ways than she knows, but instead I lean in and kiss her softly, relieved beyond measure as she responds, pulling me closer, her warm breasts pressed up against my chest, sending a zing of arousal straight to the tip of my cock.

  “If you were a monster, I wouldn’t want to do this,” she whispers, rolling on top of me, her blond hair falling around us like a curtain.

  I brush strands of hair aside and gaze up into her hazel eyes. I should tell her now about Adrienne—there will never be a better moment—but my tongue will not form the words, my jaw wired closed.

  I choose the present over the past, losing myself to the heat of her body on mine, my old life and all its horrors slipping away like a bad dream, into the furthest reaches of my mind.

  Chapter 13

  Mila

  The next morning, I wake up to dazzling white sunlight at the back of my eyelids and wonder if I dreamed it all.

  But then I feel a warm, strong hand splayed on my thigh, legs intertwined with mine, and the unmistakable scent of musky man permeating my nostrils. I whisper a silent amen to the heavens. I’m not usually a religious person, but after this twist of fate, I’m convinced there is a God.

  And He is good.

  I stir, furrowing deeper into the mattress, smiling as Vincent’s hand moves to my tummy, dragging me backward into the snug warmth of his chest, soft downy hairs tickling my spine.

  “Morning,” he says throatily, brushing my hair aside and pressing hot kisses into my shoulders.

  I release a sigh of pure contentment. “Morning.”

  Part of me begins to grieve for a future when I will not wake up like this—a knot of tangled sheets, my bottom pressed against his stirring groin, expert hands torturing me with soft, circular caresses. If I could freeze time and live in one moment forever, this would be it.

  I turn over, burying myself in his embrace, wanting to drown in the hard and soft lines of his body. I want to know nothing more of the world than his touch and smell, his smooth skin golden in the light from the window.

  “Let’s never leave this bed,” I murmur.

  He chuckles, rough fingertips inching their way up my inner thigh.

  “I’m serious. If we locked the door and closed all the blinds, how long do you think it would be before they broke the doors down?”

  “A few days,” he says, the words vibrating through me as he moves his lips against my neck. “I don’t think my superiors would take kindly to our new situation.”

  A breath catches in my throat as his fingers probe the warmth between my legs. “Vincent,” I gasp. “Keep going.”

  He smiles into my lips. “I have no intention of stopping.”

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, I’m wrapped in a towel at the kitchen island, watching a shirtless Vincent make me boiled eggs. He’s saying something about French cooking, but I’m not listening. I’m too busy admiring the play of muscles and tendons under his satiny skin as he lifts a carton of eggs from the fridge. If men who looked this good never wore shirts, the world would be a better place.

  “Don’t put the eggs in until the water is boiling,” I say, coming back to my senses as he flips open the carton.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, a wry smile on his lips.

  “And throw some salt into the water. Otherwise the shells might crack. Have you seriously never made boiled eggs before?”

  “I have, but they always end up too hard.”

  I lay a hand over my chest. “It’s a good thing I’m here, Vincenzo—boiled eggs are one of the few things I can make without screwing things up. Now, the trick is, lower the eggs in carefully from the edge of a spoon. Then as soon as they’re in, you put the bread in the toaster. The art is in the synchronization.”

  “Ah, so it’s all about timing,” he says, putting the first egg on a dessert spoon. “That makes sense.”

  “Exactly. Timing is everything.”

  He turns back to the bubbling pan of water and lowers the egg in, giving me a good view of his ripped back and fine ass. A slow, involuntary whistle of appreciation slips out from between my lips. />
  “Did you just whistle at me?” he asks, sliding the second egg into the pan.

  “I think it was the wind,” I say innocently. “It’s drafty up here in the penthouse. You should consider closing a window.”

  He grins, shaking his head and taking another egg from the carton. In a flash, he pushes down the lever on the toaster. “Fast enough?” he asks, cocking a brow.

  “Excellent. Now set the timer for three and a half minutes.”

  He snatches up a little egg-shaped timer and twists the dial around. “Are you always this bossy in the kitchen?”

  “Only about eggs.”

  He chuckles, reaching into the cupboard and taking out an unopened box of egg cups. “So, what time does the party kick off this evening?”

  My stomach plummets. I’ve been racking my brain all morning for an excuse not to go to my cousin’s engagement party tonight, but Mum is suspicious enough already that something is going on. If I don’t show, she’ll have a total meltdown and wind up at my flat in Finsbury Park. Where I won’t be.

  I sigh. “We can get there about six.”

  The party is being held at a village hall in Kent, where I grew up. Running my gaze over Vincent, it isn’t hard to imagine what everyone’s reaction will be when I rock up tonight with him on my arm. They will totally lose their shit, and I’ll be asked about the hot blond man for the rest of my days. I gulp, staring at his handsome face as he rips open the packet of egg cups, doubts creeping into my head like rats at a door. What am I thinking, opening my heart up like this again? Playing make-believe that the kind, good-looking man before me could be my boyfriend?

  Just then the timer goes off, ringing and bouncing on the countertop. “The eggs,” I shriek. “Go, go, go!”

  Vincent moves in a blur of speed. Within a few seconds, the eggs and two slices of buttered toast are on a plate in front of me. He holds out a cutlery knife. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  “You do it,” I urge. “I always burn my fingers.”

  He turns the knife and lops off the heads of the eggs in two neat flicks. A rich, yellow yolk oozes over the edges as we beam at each other.

  “Perfect. They’re not hard,” I say, high-fiving him and taking a bite of toast.

  “The eggs aren’t, no,” he mutters, ghosting a hand along my bare arm, almost making me choke on my bread.

  My eyes flick to the bulge in his tracksuit bottoms, making me sway a little on the stool. “That’s enough smutty remarks, Inspector.”

  He pulls out the stool opposite and slides onto the seat. “My apologies, Miss Hart.”

  Dipping a strip of toast into the creamy yolk, I quirk a brow. “There’s nothing sexy about boiled eggs.”

  He leans across to wipe a stray crumb from my chin, blue eyes burning. “There is when you’re around.”

  I’m considering putting the piece of soggy bread down and kissing him when the sound of someone pounding on the front door breaks the spell.

  I frown as he slides off the stool. “Will that be Hilda?”

  “I doubt it. It’s Saturday, and besides, she has her own key.”

  I carry on eating as he disappears into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. After a few seconds, I hear the distant rumble of voices.

  It isn’t until the door is flung open like a loose screen in a hurricane and the balding head of Sergeant Lee Davies appears that I remember I’m wrapped in a towel. Not one of the large types either—no, this one barely covers my ass. Vincent jumps between us too late. Davies’s wide eyes flit from the towel to Vincent’s naked torso and back again. I wrap my arms around my middle self-consciously, realizing it probably looks like we were having sex right before he arrived. I mean, we kind of had been, give or take twenty minutes, but it’s still mortifying.

  I bounce off the stool, my face burning. “I’ll go get dressed.”

  The short distance from the kitchenette to the bedrooms brings a new level of meaning to the phrase walk of shame.

  As soon as the door closes behind me, I hear Davies’s blunt cockney tones erupt. “What’s going on here, then? Laundry day, is it? Both of you ran out of clothing?”

  When I emerge a few minutes later, in black leggings and a long-sleeved sweater, Davies is slumped on the sofa like a broken puppet, rubbing the bridge of his nose and breathing heavily. At first I think he’s having some sort of panic attack, but then as I get closer, I realize he’s fighting back tears. Vincent looks up as I approach, his blue eyes round with sympathy.

  “Mila, Davies’s wife has left him.”

  I sink like a stone onto the sofa opposite. “Oh.” As soon as my backside connects with the seat, Davies flips his head up, eyes swollen and red.

  “She’s kicked me out. I confronted her about everything, just like you said, and she admitted it all. Except it wasn’t because of what happened in Essex. She says she loves him.”

  At the word love, his head lolls forward and he dissolves into tears. Vincent slips into the seat next to him, giving him a pat on the back.

  I spring up from the sofa as if electrocuted. “I’ll make a cup of tea.”

  Vincent glances up, flashing me a grateful smile as I scurry off to the kitchen, across the room.

  “I saw Marjorie from three doors down on my way out,” Lee says between sobs. “She says the bastard isn’t even good looking. Says he has greasy hair and sideburns that need trimming, and once he left her husband’s brand-new lawn mower outside the front door without even knocking. I mean, what kind of heartless bastard does a thing like that? He didn’t even put a card through the letterbox—it got rained on.”

  “Bastard,” Vincent agrees, patting at his shoulder again. “Shall we get Janie at work to have a dig around? See what she can get on him?”

  After I’ve filled the kettle and flicked the switch, I have a good gawk at Lee Davies in turmoil. I’ve seen women crying over men a hundred times. Back when my dad left us, Mum took to her bed and cried for a month solid. But seeing a man in the same situation is strange. It’s not something you see every day.

  While watching the spectacle unfold, I notice a slightly worrying sight at the edge of the coffee table—a bulging, black suitcase that he wouldn’t have brought from his car unless he plans to stay. Which would just about take the cake. I have plans for Vincent and me, and they most definitely do not require an audience. Or clothing, for that matter.

  After adding two sugars and a gallon of milk to Davies’s tea, I carry the mug back to the lounge and plant it on the coffee table in front of him. He snatches it up immediately and leans back into the sofa, eyes closed.

  I seize the opportunity to widen my eyes at Vincent, jabbing a finger in the direction of the black suitcase.

  Vincent shrugs before clearing his throat. “I guess you’ll being staying with your mother for the time being, then?”

  One of Lee’s eyes pops open, flickering between us. I know instantly he isn’t fooled. “I was hoping it might be all right to stay here for a few days,” he says. “I know the guest room is taken by Mila here, but I’ll be fine with the sofa. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Vincent asks.

  Lee’s brows twitch, some of the twinkle returning to his gray eyes. “Unless there’s suddenly another room available.” He sits up straight in the chair, some of the tea sloshing onto his beige golfing slacks. “Or I could bunk in with you, Vince.”

  Vincent and I exchange fleeting and horrified glances.

  “You snore,” Vincent says quickly. “I’ll take the sofa, you can have my room. I don’t really sleep anyway.”

  Lee’s eyes flicker to me. “I bet you don’t. But anyway, the sofa is fine. I’m not sure I’d get much sleep in your bedroom. The soundproofing in these places is atrocious.”

  Heat creeps up my neck and I push myself from up from the sofa. “I’m going to get my o
utfit ready for tonight,” I say, eager to escape Lee’s knowing stare.

  I’ve just made it into my room when Vincent appears. He wraps strong arms around me, thrusting me up onto the bedroom wall, his chest pressed tight against my breasts, the thick rope of his hard length digging into my groin. I melt into him like hot lava spilling down the side of a volcano.

  “God, Mila, I’m so sorry. I’ll call Burke right away. Maybe Lee can stay with him until he sorts things out with his wife.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, looping my arms around his neck. “He should stay. He’s your friend. Do you think he’s guessed about us?”

  Vincent nods. “But he won’t say anything. He’ll just tease us mercilessly until one of us beats him to death with Hilda’s industrial-size iron.”

  I chuckle, leaning my warm forehead against his cool one. “What will we do? I can’t not kiss you or touch you. I’ll explode into a thousand burning embers of lust.”

  He groans, grinding me harder into the wall. “I missed you. How is that possible? It’s only been twenty minutes since we were last alone.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, panting slightly as he works a hand beneath my top and begins swirling a rough thumb around my nipple. “But I missed you too.”

  I knot my hands into his hair and mash my lips against his, groaning as he begins rubbing his erection against me.

  The moment dies when Lee Davies’s voice drifts out from the lounge: “Got any biscuits to go with that tea, Vince?”

  Vincent and I freeze.

  “Yep,” I whisper, leaning out of the kiss. “Call Burke as soon as you can.”

  * * *

  “We’re doing it all backward,” Vincent says later as we weave our way out of the underground parking garage.

  I straighten my dress. After restraining ourselves for the rest of the afternoon, things heated up when we finally made it out of the apartment. Vincent’s carefully styled hair is now stuck up like wild grass, and I have pinpricks of stubble rash on my jaw.